Mousetraps and the Days of Questioning

Preparing for war, I have loaded the mousetraps and placed them in strategic spots on well-traveled roads which lead to bedroom, loft, remote areas behind the stove. Arriving home from Florida to find slippers full of bird seed, little stashes of food in folds of flannel sheets, I have declared war, with the drum beat of Dolly's voice in my mind. "Mice carry disease. Mice are dirty." Mice deserve to die.

How quickly we become ruthless killers! Only two weeks ago I confidently surveyed this cabin as lofty liberator, kicking over deadly mousetraps which flew into the air like little firecrackers of freedom behind me. Mo, respected carrier of archaic wisdom, outlined moral guidelines, defined our goal. "What if they don't die right away? What if they are in pain?"

I remember a squirming mass of beating hearts in a pie pan, little baby mice, naked, eyes closed, being blindfolded, transported to remote locations and killed (smushed!) in the most horrible of ways under the order of a wise mother who squealed in terror while standing on a chair. Blood on our hands, as children we go forth to war with no recollection of death.

Now, hearing traps spring from a distance, imagining smoke rising, perhaps some desperate wiggling, futile attempts at escape. Ha. My grandfather's wisdom is my brave battle song.